


Lost, and Found

by Fireskin



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Drunken sex, F/M, Healing, Humor, Romance, naked, the best tattoo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fireskin/pseuds/Fireskin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she'd received the message today it had felt like her heart stopped for a moment. She couldn't breath. They were coming. They'd gotten her letter. Arl Teagan himself would be here any day to collect their lost prince. Why did she send it again?</p><p>Oh yes...that moment she was sobered enough to become the responsible Hawke. The Hawke that saved random apostates and templars and peasants and the whole fucking Maker-forsaken city. So of course she had to save the sad, silly, drunken Ferelden that she had somehow, inexplicably, fallen in love with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Lost Prince

 

A Ferelden drunk was not an unusual sight in the Hanged Man of an evening and this night was certainly no exception. Why the blond loser in the corner had caught her attention, Hawke was never quite sure. Perhaps it was the muttering about the hero Loghain. Or the strange ramblings about grey wardens. Or maybe just that he was handsome and his clothing was a tad finer than the usual patrons.

It had been a raucous evening of debauchery and laughter with Isabella and Varric. An unusual one where little brother Carver's glowering presence hadn't dampened the shenanigans and so things had escalated. Three sheets to the wind and without said sheet to cover her flushed nakedness (having lost a drinking game and her clothing to Isabella), Kirkwall's newest scion found herself dizzily demanding a rematch to the laughter and appreciative whistles of the tipsy crowd surrounding their table.

“Darlin' I think you've had enough alcohol tonight to sink an armada.” Varric laughed at her while surreptitiously sliding the nearly empty bottle near her elbow off the table and out of sight.

“Well, clearly not enough to convince her to sink MY armada.” Isabella pouted.

“She can sink my ship anytime.” The slurred words from some random stranger near the back of the crowd prompted Hawke to glower fuzzily at them all.

“No...sinking armadas while I'm naked.”

“Honey, when you're naked is the _best_ time to sink an armada.” To the laughter of the crowd Isabella leaned back in her chair with a saucy flourish.

“Damn, I wish I'd thought of that one!” Varric shook his head as he pulled out a battered deck of cards. “Okay my fiery Hawke, I think it's time to allow you to try to win your clothing...and your dignity back.”

“Ooooo Wicked Grace! I love that game.” With a glint of card-shark shining through her intoxication, Isabella took a last swig and leaned forward. “So, the wager is Hawke's robe vs what?”

“You just drank the last of my money.” The red-headed apostate pointed out in a helpful and rather slurred voice.

“True, true, but perhaps there is something else? You could indenture your little brother to me. He's not bad looking and he'd probably like the life of a sailor.”

“Hawke's mother would have your head on a pole. Hell, Hawke's mother would have MY head on a pole for allowing it.” Varric's nimble fingers dealt out two hands while he spoke.

“But I need my...my robe back. Mother will kill me if I come home without it.” The plaintive note to her drunken voice made both her friends laugh and then Isabella slapped her hand on the table.

“I know. If you win, you get your robe back. If I win, you have to sink the armada of someone in this bar tonight.” The dusky pirate smirked. “You have a beautiful pirate, a surly barkeep, a sexy dwarf,” Varric interrupted “Oh no, keep me out of this!” Isabella shrugged and continued. “A rather nasty barmaid and all these...interesting men...to choose from. Personally I think the beautiful pirate is the best bet though.”

“Alright...I'll take that bet. I'm reeeeaaaalllly good at Wick...ur Wicked Grace.” Hawke plomped her naked bottom down in the chair and squinted at her cards.

Xxx

 

“You cheated!” Hawke didn't know how she'd done it, but of the three out of five, Isabella had lost the first two and easily won the last three when Hawke had agreed to keep going.

“Of course I did. Why you ever thought gambling with a pirate was a good idea isn't my concern.”

Varric gathered the cards, shaking his head and snickering. “Chalk it up to lessons learned my friend.” Hawke grumbled. “I should never trust a dwarf or a pirate. What was I thinking. If I ever do it again, stop me Varric.” The dwarven rogue laughed out loud. “You mean, before tomorrow night?”

“Oh, don't be a spoil-sport.” Isabella chided, then gestured grandly at the room before bouncing her own amply bosom at the naked woman across the table. “Time to make a choice. Whose armada is getting sunk tonight by our beautiful, if dangerous loser?

Standing with all the dignity she could muster naked and drunk, Hawke turned her nose into the air and began a slow and saucy saunter around the room, peering at each of the patrons in turn. Some flushed at her perusal. Some reached for her with greedy hands, but even drunk she easily evaded their touch. Until she found herself in front of the strange blond Ferelden in the corner. He seemed lost in his own world, paying little attention to his surroundings.

Funny, she thought to herself as she paused to study him. His own world was one of bitterness and sorrow and loss if his expression was any indication.

She knew about bitterness and sorrow and loss.

Without even realizing she'd made the decision, she moved closer and struck an inviting pose. “Hey stranger, if you let me “sink your armada”, I'll let you sink mine.”

“Wha? What are you talking about?” His blurred gaze moved to follow her voice and his eyes widened in surprise at the flagrant nakedness before him.

“Seriously? You don't know? Well… I think it means do you want to have sex with me.” Her voice faltered in uncertainty. Sleeping with strangers was not something she did often. Honestly, she'd kind of intended to make Isabella happy if she'd lost (she had really not believed she would lose).

“Have sex? With you?” His voice rose to a shocked wail and he nearly dropped the cup he'd been bringing to his mouth when she spoke.

“Yes, with me. Are you daft man? Never mind. My dignity is worth more than this. Not much more, but...” She turned away, then whirled as a questing hand caressed her bottom.

The man sat with wide eyes, holding his hand up as though it had been burned. “You, you're a real woman...talking to me and...everything.”

“What? You thought I wasn't real?” She gawked back at him in surprise and they stared at each other for a moment. A moment that slowly faded from outrage to ridiculousness and then they both began to laugh.

As the laughter faded his eyes dropped to the pale skin on display and he flushed but didn't look away.

“Do you still want to...uh...sink my armada?”

“Yes, yes I think I do.”

He stood, and with a clumsy but somehow noble bow, he took her arm in his and they staggered down the hallway together.

 


	2. The Found Connection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She'd had no intention of continuing with him after that first drunken night of awkward sex and intoxicated connection. But there had been connection and the stress of supporting her family and friends in a city set against anyone from Ferelden had brought her back to his side of the inn.

“Prepare to be boarded!” If the blond man's slurring words hadn't given away his inebriation, his deplorable aim would have as he leapt from the rickety chair to the bed where a giggling and equally inebriated Hawke sprawled.

Or, attempted to leap to the bed and instead leapt over the bed, tangling his foot in the threadbare blanket and landing in a naked heap on the floor.

“Oh good lord man, you'll be the poorest pirate in the world if you can't even hit a target this size.” Hawke rolled to peer over the side of the bed at the nude masculine display spreadeagled on the floor.

With a weak gesture at the shabby room surrounding him (and indeed, only Varric's room at the Hanged Man showed anything but absolute squalor), he responded. “Clearly, I AM the poorest pirate in the world or I wouldn't be _here_.” He reached out a slightly shaking hand to her for help and with a snort Hawke grasped it. “More fool me, to choose the poorest pirate.”

With a surprising surge of strength he pulled her squealing from the bed to the floor with him. “Well, you're hardly one to talk when you're down here with me.”

During their first year of sexual encounters, he'd surprised Hawke with his strength. She'd been even more surprised (after she'd gotten him naked that first time) at the criss-cross of scars covering his body. A warriors body gone a bit soft around the edges in whatever time he'd been here with the dregs of society in their roughshod haven.

She'd assumed he was a deserter from Ostagar with the string of poorly remembered false names he'd given her. The first time she'd asked, the amount of anger he'd exhibited with his vehement denial had nearly lead to violence. Fortunately for their...whatever this kind of relationship was...he didn't remember it in the intoxication of the next day.

“Well, now that you have me, what do you intend to do with me?” Her voice came out rather breathy as masculine fingers ran gently over her nipples and the soft underside of her breasts. Funny how his hands never failed to pause a moment before they moved to caress her body. Almost as if each time he was asking permission for things to continue.

His arousing caress paused again as he winced in pain and then flopped back on the floor as if dead. “Ow! I think… I think I broke my mast.” As Hawke rolled her eyes he began warbling a rather off key rendition of a funeral dirge.

“Seriously, you are such a goon.” She sighed and then her eyes lit with wicked intention. “But, I believe I have a solution for your...mast.”

The red-headed mage rolled to her hands and knees over him. “Here now! What's all this?” His objections were stifled when with a grin as wicked as her intentions she leaned in and kissed him.

She had not intended continuing with him after that first drunken night of awkward sex and intoxicated connection. But there had been a connection. And soon the stress of supporting her family and friends in a city set against anyone from Ferelden had brought her back to his side of the inn. A second time she'd stood naked before him and he'd picked up on the hint much more quickly than the first time (but truly, the fact that he'd even still needed such a blatant hint at all spoke to his inexperience or...something). And so their game had begun. For a year she would present herself naked to him in the inn, and if he were willing or able, he'd offer her his arm in a parody of chivalry and they would retire to have sex. A year of impassioned, drunken... _playful_ sex without ties or strings or obligations.

It was what had made this last year of Qunari, carta, templars and blood mages at all bearable.

When she pulled away, she didn't pull far. Instead moving down in a warm slide of lips to his chest. When he gasped she murmured against his skin. “I've been told that the best solution for an improperly working mast, is a spit shine.” “You heard that did you? Where...oh...”

Another slide of lips down to his groin, just short of the clearly un-broken mast that leaped in anticipation at each movement down his body. His next words came out on a breath as if his throat were constricting. No more ridiculous speeches, just as she had intended. All he could manage now was...

“Oh...Maker.”

“I'm fairly sure the Maker has nothing to do with what I'm going to do to you tonight.” And with no more words to be said, she took his 'mast' into her mouth and buried her fears about the next day's expedition to the deep roads in the handsome drunk's moans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so four chapters instead of three since I decided to change the format of how I'm presenting the story.


	3. The Lost Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a sigh she relaxed into the embrace. Maker, it felt good to not be fighting for her life, or struggling to keep her family together (the tiny dregs that remained), or worrying about the city burning down around their ears in a mage/templar ignited bonfire.

WHAM, WHAM, WHAM, WHAM.

A talkative man muttering to himself stopped a moment in the hallway as if to identify the banging coming through the paper thin walls. The gasps and moans of passion that rose up to challenge the volume of the thuds, however, sent him swiftly on his way.

Inside the room, the din was nearly deafening as the blond man thrust powerfully away at a moaning Hawke while the rickety bed slammed into the walls with each ram of his hips. The grip of his fists in the blankets on either side of her head, and the arch of her back as her cries built in volume showcased a rather more intense sexual encounter than usual.

When she'd presented her naked body to him this time, he had stood with an unaccustomed tension to his drunkenness. Taking her hand he had pulled her after him with an air of desperation. Barely making it out of the common room before he'd pushed her against the wall and taken her mouth with his. They'd both been nude and well started on their sexual adventure before they'd even made it to his room. (Varric's shocked voice as they'd careened naked into his doorway with hands well involved in each others privates would live in her mind for a long time. Hell, it would likely star in his next story, much to her chagrin.)

Thrust! Bang! “Oh Maker!” (this time it was Hawke who cried out with the building tension). Thrust! Bang! “So...close!” THRUUUST! BANG! “OH MAKER!” THRUUUUUUUST! A swift transfer of his hand to grip her thigh as she arched into his moving hips, pushing him deeper into her slick womanhood and they both were undone.

“AHHHH!” The cry of release was potent, although from which throat wasn't clear as with one last thrust the tightened pulsing of her climax around his shaft brought him shouting to his own.

The silence after the cacophony would have seemed empty if not for their gasping breaths.

As the blond man collapsed next to her he drew her into his arms. Running a light hand through her hair in an unaccustomed gesture of tenderness.

“So, what brought that on?” Her voice was raspy from the workout it had gotten with the rest of her body.

“I didn't think you would come back….to...well...me.” His voice was soft and hesitant.

With the disaster that the deep roads had been with Varric, her absence had been a lot longer than she'd intended. And had she even told him she was leaving? Probably not with the limited level of communication they had shared to that point.

Why then had her first thoughts once the dust had settled turned to this nameless lover?

She had no answer for herself and so, unsure how to respond stayed silent. It didn't seem to bother him, though, as he reached up to wrap a lock of fiery hair around his finger. “It's longer than it was before.”

“Well, there aren't many barbers in the deep roads. At least, not ones that will let you keep your head.”

He froze a moment before pulling her more tightly into his arms. “Why did you go to the deep roads?”

With a sigh she relaxed into the embrace. Maker, it felt good to not be fighting for her life, or struggling to keep her family together (the tiny dregs that remained), or worrying about the city burning down around their ears in a mage/templar ignited bonfire.

If she were honest with herself, really, it just felt good to be in his arms again. Her answer was muttered against his shoulder. “Money. And I suppose on that count it was a success. But the price was...too high.” Her voice broke and the hand playing in her hair stilled a moment, then dropped to a comforting stroke of her rather blanket-burned back. “I've been to the deep roads, and there is no treasure great enough to make the sacrifices it demands worthwhile.”

Wait...what? Hawke sat up, pushing against his embrace just enough to be able to look him in the face.

“You've been to the deep roads?”

He grimaced and then nodded. “I probably shouldn't have told you that.”

“But the only people normally who go to the deep roads are dwarves or...”

“Grey Wardens.”

She froze, studying his face in surprise as he dropped his eyes to avoid her gaze. “No, you don't get to hide from this right now.” The steel in her voice had caused even the sternest templar or most hardened ruffian to obey her command. She'd never used it on him before but this… this she had to know.

“My brother, my little brother was tainted in the deep roads. The Grey Wardens took him to try and save his life. I have to know. I have to know what it's like. What he could be going through now. I don't even know if he survived. Please.”

She seldom begged. She seldom cried either, but at the thought of Carver possibly alone and dead in the dark, tears began to well.”

“Shhh, okay, okay. Just...please don't cry!” His rather panicked voice brought her back to his face and out of her fears. “I can't resist a woman in tears.”

He reached for the bottle on the spindly table near the bed with one arm as she returned to the warmth of the other. “But we are WAY too sober for that conversation.”

Xxx

The common room at the Hanged Man was emptier than usual for this late at night. But then, perhaps it was just that Hawke was even less sober than usual for this late at night.

It had been a day the void could swallow whole as far as she was concerned. She'd bathed three times that evening before coming here and could still smell the stink of the poison gas. Isabella had told her it was in her head, but then, the dusky pirate hadn't been there to see the bodies of the poor littering the courtyard. Or fought off the never-ending waves of crazed mercenaries while trying to stop a potential city wide catastrophe. They had won, but the approaching emotional price was still looming in the back of her mind. She had been drinking steadily tonight in a vain effort to drown it's coming horrors.

Her eyes strayed to the empty corner where the blond drunk (it felt weird to call him by the name she now knew) Alistair normally sat. Over the last couple of years there had been a few rare days that he'd not been ensconced in his throne of intoxication and tonight was, sadly, one of them. Maker, she could have used his company tonight.

With a sigh she turned her attention back to the raging debate at the other end of her table.

“But it would never work. Donnen and Belladonna could never really be together.” Varric had very nearly climbed over the table in a passionate fit of drunken writer pique.

“And why not?” Isabella, in an equally passionate fit of drunken critic pique, leaned in until pirate and dwarf were almost nose to nose over the litter of empty mugs.

“Because she's a sailor. She's going to _leave_. That's what sailors do.”

“And why is that a problem? Passionate nights of sex and then a fond farewell in the morning until next time. God knows that story could use more sex.”

“Not everything is about sex, Rivaini.”

“Oh yes it is! I defy you to find a single person in this bar tonight who doesn't want sex.”

“Okay, fair point. But it's poor writing to rely on that when it's out of character for the...uh...character.”

“Well then you just aren't thinking hard enough. Get it “hard” enough.” A burst of laughter from the crowd made Varric wince and Isabella smirk.

“So, my dear, sweet, hairy, _short_ , writer friend. You could write a passionate encounter, followed by a tearful farewell as Donnen says, “If you love something, let it go.” And Belladonna responds with, “If it comes back, it was always yours.” And he ends with, “If it doesn't, it never was,” as she sails into the sunset." Pleased with her own brilliance, the curvy pirate settled back into her chair with a misty eye. “I've always loved that Rivaini saying.”

“It's Antivan and you have it wrong.” The frustrated dwarven rogue slammed his (fortunately empty) mug on the table as Hawke winced at the noise. “It's, if you love something SET IT FREE.”

“Oh no it ISN'T! It's by the famous Rivain writer Boscrotch...or someone like that.” Isabella's moment of sentimentality vanished in the heat of the verbal battle and she was on her feet.

“ANTIVAN, by that ridiculous hack Mosimard! And I would know better than...”

“OH NO. YOU DON'T PLAY THAT CARD WITH ME!”

At the flash of steel, Hawke sighed and decided to take herself and her aching head home for another bath.


	4. The Found Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you love something, set it free. If it returns to you it was always yours. If it doesn't, it never was.

The chatter of the bar and of her companions this night was lively and joyful as she waited for the arrival of her inebriated lover. Tonight they would celebrate three years of naked, drunken...something (although she doubted he would remember the anniversary through the alcoholism). Three years, and in that time this whatever-it-was had changed from an intoxicated dalliance to a lifeline for her.

Hawke found herself unable to drown her thoughts in ale this time and pushed the mug away, ignoring Varric's raised eyebrows at her abstinence.

They were coming.

When she'd received the message today it had felt like her heart stopped for a moment. She couldn't breath. They were coming. They'd gotten her letter. Arl Teagan himself would be here any day to collect their lost prince.

Why did she send it again?

Oh yes...that moment she was sobered enough to become the responsible Hawke. The Hawke that saved random apostates and templars and peasants and the whole fucking Maker-forsaken city. So _of_ _course_ she had to save the sad, silly, drunken Ferelden that she had somehow, inexplicably, fallen in love with.

If you love something, set it free. She hated that saying, regardless of whether it was Rivaini or Antivan. Why was it going through her head now? She wasn't freeing him from anything, she was saving him from himself.

The loud, off-key singing coming through the door to the piss-soaked city signaled the arrival of her lover. Should she tell him? Bah...one more night for herself she decided in a fit of selfishness.

Abandoning her introspection with her clothing, she tossed the robe to a grinning Varric and approached the musical blond.

Xxx

He was more intoxicated than he had been for a while, grinning and singing like an idiot as they shut his door on the world. As soon as it had thudded closed, he turned and grabbed her, moving into an impromptu waltz and warbling words that went to no actual song.

“I got something...to celebrate us...you're going to love it.”

“To celebrate us? Good grief man, stop singing. I can't understand a word you're saying.”

“Yes, and I can guarantee nobody has gotten one like this. Not even Zevran.” With a swift kiss that missed her lips and hit her cheek instead, he let her go and began to unsteadily undress himself.

“Who on earth is Zevran?” She asked while struggling to help him with the ties on his over-shirt. “A very, very ugly elf. That's who. A tattooed elf! OUCH!” He yelped a little as she pulled the shirt off over his head. Then unsteadily took her arms and set her away from him a pace. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, I'm ready.”

“Ta da!” With an unsteady flourish he dropped his pants, turned and presented his naked and reddened backside to her. His skin was flushed with the pain of a brand new tattoo, sitting jauntily on his hip and a handspan across. Hawke nearly choked.

It was a penis with the word Armada written down it's length in a fine nautical looking script. Perched on the end was a rather confused looking hawk.

“Andraste's flaming undergarments! Is that what I think it is?”

“YES! Because my armada is for you. You're the hawk. Get it?” With a grin of pride he turned back to her. “It hurt like the void too.”

“I have a strong feeling you're going to regret that in the morning.” Hawke finally failed at stifling her surprised laughter. His expression changed from pride to one of intoxicated, tearful tenderness.

Her laughter faltered as he took her into his arms and brushed his lips across her forehead. Voice growing husky as he whispered against her hair, “I will never regret you.”

She had stood up to the Arishok while heavily armed giants watched eagerly for her to make a wrong move. She had lectured the Viscount himself, holding him to a higher standard. She had faced down the worst of blood mages and not quailed. But these words, breathed with nothing but truth behind them made her tremble in fear of the pain to come. Perhaps feeling her trembling, he pulled her closer into his embrace. “You know I love you, right?”

Pulling away a little so that, hopefully, he would see how very much she meant it, she looked up into his dear, drunken face. “I love you too. Never forget that. I...”

Unfortunately, the tender moment ended just then as her hand accidentally brushed his newly tattooed hip and he let out a yelp of pain. Hawke sighed, voice heavy with disappointment. “Oh no, perhaps we should pass tonight?”

“Oh, you don't get off that easy…get it...'get off'?”

With a wicked grin he took her hands and turned her around, pressing against her until she was bent forward over the bed and his “armada” came to erect life against the moistening entry her position opened to him. He began to stroke her with fingers that, while unsteady, were firm enough to draw a moan and an eager pressing against him with her bottom. He took the (not very subtle) hint and poised his shaft for entry, but didn't thrust into her just yet, much to the fiery mage's frustration.

The words were slurred and breathless from his own awakening lust. “Tonight I'm thinking a little Mabari style may just do the trick. Being Ferelden and all.”

Xxx

Arl Teagan stood in shock, mouth agape at the naked mage before him. It would have made her laugh if her heart weren't bleeding somewhere inside. Of course, he couldn't see that, he only got to see the apparently wanton noble woman slumming in a seedy bar. The intense pain carefully hidden away.

“I confess, I did not expect to see you like...urm...is that customary here?” His voice did a masterful job of hiding his judgment. Truly though, she didn't care. For three years she'd never come to _his_ (it was still a challenge to think of him as Alistair and not just her blond) table clothed. This day, of all days, she would not be ashamed of their time together.

“No, it is a game we play.” The velvet-clad nobleman didn't need, and likely didn't care about the whole story.

“Where is Alistair?” The polite question held so much emotion that Hawke took the moment to really study the red-headed Ferelden man. Stalwart would be a word used to describe him in stories she thought. The straight posture of the noble born, tempered with the scars of a warrior who had seen real battle. Handsome after a sort, with the humorous crinkle at the corners of his eyes that showed he likely laughed a lot, but not tonight. Tonight, those eyes looked grim and sad. Not someone here to retrieve a prince for political gain. Someone here to retrieve one he loved. Her heart eased a small bit at that.

“You care for him a great deal to have come all this way.” Hawke's voice gentled with her new understanding. The grim cast to his features gave way fully to the sorrow. “I've known him since he was a small child. The quality of his character, of his sacrifice for our nation and, indeed, the world...he.” His fists clenched. “He deserves so much more than this. And by the Maker, I will make sure he gets it.”

If you love something, set it free.

The vehemence of his statement cleared her mind. She'd almost decided not to show him where Alistair was, but this would be better for him. He would have a chance to heal with those who cared for him. And maybe, a secret part of her heart whispered, just maybe he would return for her when the healing was done.

“Follow me.” And with no more preamble than that (so that she wouldn't change her mind) she strode across the crowded room to the far corner where her inebriated lover, and Teagan's inebriated prince, sat waiting for her.

“Alistair.” As she touched his shoulder, the unaccustomed use of his name must have warned him that something was different. Instead of the usual grasping of her hand as he stood, he looked carefully over his shoulder at her. Teagan took that opportunity to slip up to Alistair's other side, leaning in to pin his found prince at the table in case he should attempt to flee.

While she had his attention, his last attention for her here, she touched his face and whispered. “Never forget I love you.” He began to reach for her caressing hand, but then Teagan spoke and his head whipped around to look at the nobleman like he was seeing a ghost.

“So you are here.” Teagan's voice took on a stern quality it hadn't when speaking to her she noted as she stepped back to give the two men privacy.

The nobleman bent his head close to the drunk man's and began to talk. A few moments and then he stepped back, speaking loud enough that she could hear. “Start again. Come with me, back to Ferelden.”

And then it happened, the moment of choice. He looked at her, the alcohol not obscuring the question written plainly on his conflicted face. Do I go?

If you love something, set it free. Now she understood.

With a barely perceptible movement of her head towards Teagan and a sad smile the last of this series of choices was made.

In response, her blond gave a heavy sigh, stood and walked slowly towards the door, watching her with sad, betrayed eyes as he passed.

Teagan stayed behind a step to give her a look of...something. Gratitude, maybe? Or perhaps, just a moment of reassurance that he would take care of this man for her now that her time with him was done.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't give up my friends. There is one more chapter to go. What will it bring for our intrepid and inebriated couple?


	5. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Occluding everything and everyone else was the very last sight she would ever have expected on this Maker-forsaken mountain. Crouched before her was the blond drunk. Or former drunk if the brightness of his eyes were any indication.

The tavern was noisy, overcrowded and smelled of spoiling druffalo fat. She nearly turned around and went back out into the blizzard that had driven her inside, but whatever else it was, the inn was warm.

Decision made, the mound of bundled fur and blanket that was the former Champion, Hawke, moved gratefully towards the fire. People slept curled against the walls, she noted. That likely meant there were no rooms available. And when she finally made her way through the press to the innkeeper she found her supposition was correct.

With a sigh she managed to procure warm bread and a mug of ale. Then wedged her blanketed bulk near the fire between an old woman with skin like wrinkled shoe leather and a thin man already passed out against the wall (whether drunk or asleep she had no idea).

As she ate she passed the time with exhausted pondering. Here she was at the ass end of nowhere to deliver a message. She'd been traveling well over two months from Skyhold to get here. Now, if her map was any indication, she was just a few days from her destination and the relief of the last of her duty. Which brought up another thought.

What would she do once her mission was completed?

She sighed, letting her head fall back against the wall, chewing the tough bread with closed eyes. Maker, she was tired to her bones. Exhausted to the very core of her soul. She'd begged them to let her stay to die in the fade rather than Loghain. But she'd been denied even that release. Now with no home, no goals, no loved ones to keep her from fading into obscurity (Varric would be upset but he would get over it eventually), perhaps it was time to let her bankrupt heart finally rest.

She began to drift off to sleep in the unaccustomed warmth, groggily mulling the merits of various ways of taking ones life and missed the commotion at the door. Dozing through the group of stalwarts that had entered and the swift deference the patrons gave them. Missing completely the laughter and teasing as one of their number ordered milk instead of beer.

But her battle-worn senses wouldn't let her sleep through someone crouching in front of her. Groggily, she opened her eyes, hand moving reflexively to the staff propped at her feet. And then she _froze_.

Occluding everything and everyone else was the very last sight she would ever have expected on this Maker-forsaken mountain. Crouched before her was the blond drunk. Or former drunk if the brightness of his eyes were any indication.

He'd changed in the seven or so years since they'd last seen each other. Hardened around the edges, his features seemed sharpened by sobriety and battle. He confidently carried the armor he wore with the ease of long familiarity. A much more martial look than the alcohol stained tunic he'd worn in Kirkwall, the griffon emblazoned on it indicating his status as a grey warden (which explained his presence here so close to Weisshaupt.)

And he was staring at her with an unreadable expression.

She found she couldn't speak. Couldn't tell him of the several years of searching. Couldn't ask why he never came back. Couldn't talk of the echoing cavern of loss that the Maker had granted her. Couldn't comment on how good he looked. The emotions were too much and she was too tired.

She could only stare at him with her heart in her tired eyes.

Moments passed, and then what felt like hours as they stared silently at each other.

At last he raised a gauntleted hand to stroke her cheek. Then moved gentle fingers to touch the faded fire of her hair before taking her chin and pulling her towards him. Finally whispering against her lips.

“You know, I still have that tattoo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes my short saga of Hawke and Alistair with the promise of healing and a future for them both. I think they both deserve it, don't you?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing on my other stories, but I had to take a moment write out my head-canon for this interaction. There will only be four chapters and an epilogue. 
> 
> A sequence of events prompted this.. First, I'd accidentally installed a nudity mod (that is not called a nudity mod) for my game that took me by surprise. Second, while I was goofing off with this mod my Hawke ran into Alistair for the first time at the Hanged Man. His expression when he looked at her was rather humorous and evocative and the story was born. (the cover image is that moment)
> 
> So welcome to my short story of romance and heartache and being found. (also, note in the cover image that the painting on the wall is pointing at his head as if to say "this is the one")


End file.
